You know the scene: walking through the shopping mall, there’s a gleaming car that could be yours if you buy a raffle ticket to support a national charity. The men and women selling the tickets alongside the car are usually from a community service organisation, as was the case with today’s jovial older fellow (JOF). I had a lazy $3 in my wallet and joined another older punter (AOP) already in conversation with JOF while the tickets were being exchanged.

AOP: Yeah, my cousin had a dog – you know that racetrack White City*? It was one of the biggest races in the world and my cousin’s dog won that.

JOF: My uncle had a dog called Unremembered. It won big a couple of times, but then it didn’t win. On the way home from the meet, taking the dogs home, he stopped, took the dog out and shot it.

JB: [Mesmerised and bewildered]

AOP: What – he shot it?

JOF: Yeah. I should know, I was there. I was sitting in the back seat, and he was whinging about the dog all the way home. He just suddenly pulled up the car, got the rifle out, took the dog, shot it, and chucked it in the bush.

JB: [trying to get in to the conversation, to buy a ticket] Well, ain’t no more wins coming for that dog.

Like this:

This conversation doesn’t have a lot of words – some just don’t need them to tell a story.

It’s Saturday morning and I’m waiting for the train into the city. A train from the city pulls into the platform opposite, a straggle of passengers disembark, and it pulls away. Standing opposite is a woman about my age, and with a quick glance I catch her eye briefly. She has an expression that I can’t quite put my finger on. Exhausted?

After I moment I look up again and notice she’s not alone She’s now walked up to a rubbish bin and has her arm around a young woman, who can only be her daughter, who is vomiting violently into the bin. Another young man is standing by, looking helpless. The three of them have come off the train.

The security guard in the office on my side of the platform can now see what’s happening so he comes out and yells across the platform, “Are you okay?”

Mum nods.

At this point, the man sitting a few seats from me stands up and also replies to the security guard.

“It’s okay. We’re taking her to the hospital now.”

The security guard is concerned – concerned in the way you want a security guard at a train station to be – and gesticulates to Dad that he can go up and over the footbridge to the other platform if he wants to.

But Dad is not showing any urgency. I get the impression this might not be the first time.

I can see the girl better now. She’s anywhere between 16 and 20, black hair, black shirt, black shorts, black tights, black boots; face piercings that are taking a pounding from the muscular actions associated with severe spewing. Eventually mother and daughter decide they can make a slow and careful trek across to my side of the station.

While this happens, Dad and the security guard are in polite conversation, but I only hear fragments.

“… but what can you do?”

From the footbridge: from city on the left, to city on the right, security office far centre right. Poor rubbish bin, centre left. (Pic: Wikimedia Commons)

Like this:

.. from her handbag. That was the advertising slogan of the very popular Australian brand Glomesh in the 1970s, when they brought on board a swag of popular women of the era such as Jackie Weaver, Renee Geyer and Jenny Kee. Each iconic woman’s advertisement featured a photo of her Glomesh bag, freshly tipped open with its contents artfully spilled to reveal aspects of the owner’s personality. The ads certainly reached me, an impressionable teen in the midst of feminine/feminist awakenings, with the full-page ads in women’s magazines like Cleo and Women’s Weekly.

And I soon became an employed young woman, and could afford a handbag. And I bought a Glomesh (in addition to the one given as a 21st birthday present, as you did in those days), but I soon also discovered Oroton, another Australian brand that, coincidentally, had included mesh bags as part of its staple. And lovely Oroton bags have been my guilty pleasure since, even though I suffered a 30-year ownership gap between the 1980s and 2010s, when purchases were overlooked for practicalities of survival and raising children.

But recently I seriously re-entered the handbag stakes, and have enjoyed owning my second Oroton tote, which can hold a serious load.

And this has brought on the oft-repeated question asked by many men, including Mr JB, to many women:

“What the hell have you got in there??”

Well, in the spirit of solving an entirely unnecessary mystery regarding the practicality or otherwise of women’s personal possessions, here are the contents of my Oroton so you too can tell a lot about me – and probably every other woman, ever. This is yesterday as it came out of the car after a three-day road trip to regional WA for my mother’s wedding (yay!):

Of course, it needs an inventory because I suspect there are some translations of a cultural, age and gender-specific nature required. Here we go, roughly left to right:

Self-help book helpfully offered by friend, as yet unread, but I’m sure will be helpful in due course.

Work iPad.

Top returned by mother’s friend at last minute in shopping bag, after I left it at her house, and I couldn’t get into suitcase already in the car.

Lovely notebook, a gift from former colleague, titled ‘Bloggers I met and liked’ (of course it was empty when given; boom boom), used for jotting ideas and other things that need to be remembered.

Aids to Gynaecological Nursing: A complete textbook for the nurse (1949), an impulse buy from the secondhand shop visited while exiting the regional town.

How to make money on ebay (2010) – see above (and specifically for Brownie).

Pair of leggings, in case I found time to slip into something more comfortable sometime during the journey home.

Wallet, contents of which remained thankfully enclosed for this exercise.

Cheap clutch, brought as a hopeful antidote to a fuller handbag for the wedding (not realised), and whose job was to contain mainly jewellery, perfume, tissues and ear plugs.

Clear nail polish, for those days I give a shit about my nails looking noice.

iPad charge cord; should be in the car, and will be tomorrow.

iPhone earphones.

Blondie and Brownie’s bowties from the wedding of the year.

Assorted jewellery from clutch (above) including world necklace, subject of much admiration and deservedly so.

Tag from sock three-pack, accidentally shop-lifted in my enviro bag from Target last week, so I can take it back and own up to my illegal activity.

iPhone in Otter case – what would I do without the glass protective case and rubber casing!? Well, I’d be replacing my phone glass for one. Repeatedly.

Pink lady apple, still waiting to be eaten after four days and holding up well.

Spare fast food serviettes. Hoard with gusto.

Missing chubby lipstick from make-up bag – hooray!

Spare pens. Indispensable must-haves. Writing happens everywhere.

Trusty USB, the only one that hasn’t resulted in a ‘This disk is write-protected’ message in five years. I love this USB.

Work promotional item torch – shines Open Day 2015 when you press the button a-la the Batman sign in the sky of Gotham City at night. In a crisis of darkness, I will also be able to advertise my workplace; excellent.

Dental floss; no explanation required. Nonetheless, as my friend Kellygirl the dental hygienist used to say, “Only floss the teeth you want to keep.” Wise words.

Another ’emergency kit,’ this time silver threads and golden needles, or something vaguely similar.

‘Quick drying pre-moistened wipes’ lens cleaner. I have three pairs of glasses, don’t you know.

Another cloth lens cleaner, courtesy my GP’s practice. Three pairs of glasses get smudgy. A lot.

‘Well-used’ (aka filthy) make-up bag, originally a promotional item from my preferred make-up brand. Be thankful I’ve spared the individual contents of this as well, most of which haven’t been used since 2011, with the exception of the lip liner, occasional lipstick, concealer for a particularly aggressive blemish, mascara annually (just exhausted 2016’s allocation), and of course the hitherto mentioned absent chubby stick.

Not one but two tubes of indispensable moisturising cream. $2.95 per tube, all I’ve used for 35 years, give or take. Don’t know how the extra one snuck in, probably from the bathroom bag. I’ve got them lying around everywhere.

Little tissue packs. I never seem to be organised enough to have just one packet open and on the go, there’s always two, or three, in various stages of emptying. But just as well, because TISSUES ARE ESSENTIAL, if not for me, for Mr JB or Blondie who never have any on their person when they gets a hayfever attack. Ever. Grr.

Two hair cloths – red and white. But the colours aren’t important. Getting the bloody hair off my sweaty neck when it matters is what’s important.

Video shop rental special docket, now expired, because TOMORROW ONLY! was a week ago.

Heel shields, although the jury is out on whether they’re worth the effort. I just feel I should have some as back-up.

Unwashed plastic fork from last week’s lunch, wrapped in serviette (that’s why you hoard them) and forgot to stick in the dishwasher to reuse next week.

What’s missing? A water bottle, another indispensable item for Straya. And of course it fits. Everything fits. Stuff ALWAYS fits. That’s what makes a great handbag. And a great brand. And a slightly hoarder-oriented woman.

Earlier stuff

Earlier stuff

What is hegemony anyway?

There are lots of definitions around, but this one
accords with my memory from good ol' Cultural Studies, in a nutshell:
Marxist thinker Antonio Gramsci (1891-1937) used the term to denote the predominance of one social class over others, not only politically and economically, but also by the ability of the dominant class to project its own way of seeing the world so that those who are subordinated by it accept it as 'common sense' and 'natural'.
And that continues to be a bit of a worry at times.

Language is culture.

And I do like to be polite, especially where credit is due, so the views here are mine unless otherwise acknowledged. And occasionally there's language that may be considered adult, or a bit fruity. My 14 year old is probably searching for it right now.